


Inevitable

by Valmouth



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Established Relationship, Fighter Pilots, M/M, post-show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmouth/pseuds/Valmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't figure he'd ever fly in a fight alongside Cam Mitchell. But he's pretty damn happy Cam gets there, if only because Atlantis is too important to lose to the enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own neither of these two characters, or to the other characters, events, concepts from the TV Shows they derive from. I mean no offence by posting this, and make no money from it.

They never thought the day would actually come.

John’s not sure if that was a hope he’d been holding or a threat he’d feared, but when it happens he doesn’t have the time to _think_.

The sirens go off on Atlantis and Landry’s voice is gunshot loud as he yells, “Hold. Just hold. We’re sending reinforcements.”

It’s a long way away. The Lucien Alliance has sprung without warning and Atlantis is in the middle of goddamn Antarctica, full of civilians and non-military SGC officials.

They’ve got Teyla and Ronon and handbitten marines. They’ve got munitions experts and tech experts but they've also scientists- too many scientists. There’s gunfire in the corridors and fighting in the compounds. Whole sections are in the hands of the enemy and his people are dying even while he’s shouting at them to re-group, re-gather, hold.

Just _hold_!

Ronon’s cut off, en route to securing the third generator, and John can’t reach any of that team on the radios.

Lorne’s team is holding down the feeding corridors to the control room and John’s going after the commander, who’s playing a dangerous game of hide and seek that scares John a little with its success.

Teyla’s with him, but she’s been winged. It’s only a scrape and someone’s bandaged it, but he’s seen the flash in her eyes. She’s got Torren waiting for her back at Cheyenne Mountain and John will not- _not!_ \- have anyone going back to that kid saying his mother’s dead. Not when she’s so far from her people, from her home, from her culture.

Sam’s voice is tight and tense and she says, “We’re beaming the civilians up,” but she's got her own problems. There are Lucien Alliance ships on the way and the Hammond is taking fire.

“Hold on,” she says, “Keep those shields up, John.”

And hell, he’s trying.

The enemy is gunning for the generators and they’ve been holding them off so far. They’ve got the gateroom in lock-down and the techs are fending off any attempts to hack their systems but he doesn’t have Rodney. Rodney’s out in Cheyenne Mountain with Woolsey, working on the Destiny problem. Radek’s going for gold and hell, John’s got his back. He’s got so many backs and Teyla’s got his and he’s hoping they’ll survive.

He stops for a breather, heaving lungfuls of stale air in a corridor off the main complex, bent over and flexing numb fingers on his handgun. It only lasts two seconds but he feels the shiver of the first Wraith siege burn across the back of his eyeballs.

His very tired, very sore eyeballs.

The shield holds by the grace of God and Dr. Z. and at least they only have to worry about the Lucian Alliance guys inside Atlantis, not the ships coming out of nowhere.

Sam gives him infrequent updates, and when she does, he can hear the stress in her voice, the frustration. The Hammond’s joined by the Daedalus and they’re both sustaining heavy damage. The Alliance ships are no piece of cake, even against Asgard weapons systems.

The call comes in when his back is aching and all he can smell is hot metal and the sharp flare of gunfire.

“Colonel, they’ve taken generator in A,” is Radek’s panicked update.

John swears. Sector ‘A’ is where Ronon was headed. Sector ‘A’ was the one he’d been headed to when Kolya attempted to get his grubby hands on John’s City and he doesn’t have the time to be as furious as he knows he will be when it’s all over.

Because it’s going to be over. He’s going to kick the asses of every single bastard who thought they could take down Atlantis and the SGC and him.

The cold, clear rage lasts him through another couple of hours, long enough to take back most of the fallen sectors of Atlantis, but the generator storerooms prove to be boltholes for the enemy. The generator in B falls, and when John sees the pattern, he makes for C, but it’s too late.

That’s where he’s running to when Radek comes back on the line.

“Shield is down, Colonel,” Radek yells, “The shield is down.”

He turns mid-stride and makes immediately for the ‘jumper room. They’ve held it the whole time but there’s been no need for the ‘jumpers. They’ve only had an assault on foot but all of a sudden, the shield’s gone and Sam warns him that there are ships heading into the Earth’s atmosphere.

“We’ll do what we can from up here,” she says, “But you’re going to need bodies, John. We’re still under heavy fire.”

John’s marshalling anyone and everyone with the gene, anyone who can possibly fly and fire and he knows he’s going to lose half these people. Only a handful of them are pilots and the rest aren’t. The rest can fly in a straight line but that’s about it and he’s fucked either way. Truly and surely and completely but this is his call to make. He is Military Commander of Atlantis and Atlantis must hold.

Hold.

Not fall, never fall, not to the Wraith, not the Lucien Alliance.

If it comes to it, Radek's under oath to set the self-destruct code. On his order, not before.

The squadron John’s going to lead into a dogfight is a motley crew and he winces as he goes over it in his head. He’ll have to give them basic formation and instructions so common he shouldn’t have had to even think them up, but it’s needed here and he does what’s needed. Always does. Always will.

He will hold Atlantis no matter what it takes and that’s why they’ve left him in charge, that’s why he still has his command.

He’s rounding a corner at a run when he slams into a hard chest- a grime-y, sweaty body that throws him off course by cannoning right back into him and he has one hard hand grip his shoulder and a growl snap, “Sheppard,” in his ear.

Ronon. Ronon’s alive. Bleeding and dirty and furious, but alive.

John looks up and Ronon looks down and they grin at each other, vicious and genuine and John says, “Jumper bay,” and Ronon says, “Right.”

Ronon’s got his back and Teyla’s in command at the gateroom and that’s better than he had a minute ago. He’ll get there in one piece and Ronon will cover the teams fighting to take back their generators.

They’re winning on the ground and he knows they’ll win in the air. If they can just hold it the fuck together!

His team is white-faced but grim and they take off like they’re going to make it work.

His third reprieve comes when he’s less than a hundred feet into the air, when his radio crackles and he hears, “Colonel Sheppard. General Landry figured you might need a hand.”

And John doesn’t laugh. Just smirks a little at his data display and says, “You’re late.”

Cam’s voice is wry and measured and tight with adrenaline and purpose but John can hear the amusement as he says, “Looks to me like we’re right on damn time.”

The F302s are manned by real pilots, real Airmen, and they’re deadly. They’re not puddlejumpers but they’re better than scientists and logisticians and the kitchen staff.

“Colonel Sheppard,” crackles another voice in his ear.

John’s not sure how much more he can take but he says, “Colonel Carter,” warily, because he knows that ‘I’ve got some interesting news for you’ tone of her voice.

“Rodney’s on his way down to Atlantis,” she says simply, “Beaming him in now.”

“Thanks,” John says, and he’s heartfelt.

“Good luck,” Sam ends, and cuts off.

The ‘jumpers hit the enemy planes before the F302s, and John’s brain switches to the feel of the console beneath his fingertips, the calculations and trajectories.

The F302s hit barely a moment later and the noise is deafening, even from inside the ‘jumper. The chaos is thick and maddening, and if he lets his control slip it will overwhelm him.

He’d never thought the day would come when he flew in a mission with Cam Mitchell. Didn’t envision it, except in a kind of vague way that meant no danger, just competition, but this is real. This is danger. Either one of them could die and both of them might, and they haven’t told anyone.

“Score two,” Anderson crows, and John’s mouth twists.

It’s a little tasteless but he’s met those kinds of pilots before. He’s worked with them, and he doesn’t care what they say so long as they’re good. So long as the burning bits of debris and twisted metal are Lucien Alliance ships and not their own. So long as they live, and the enemy goes down.

A ship explodes in his periphery and he veers, more reflex than decision. An F302 streaks past, on perfect trajectory to have taken the shot, and John knows how this is going to happen. Because his life for the past six years has been a damn science-fiction movie.

“Mitchell,” he says, “Main ship.”

“Got it,” Cam says.

Cam flies in silence and John drags his mind away from his people. They’ll do what they have to do, and he has to do what he has to do.

What _they_ have to do.

Cam flies in silence, but when they get close, John hears a soft grunt in his ear that tightens his chest and Cam says, “You want to flip for the shot?” with more irony than John’s ever heard from him.

And John’s smirk this time is bigger, manic. “I’ve got it.”

It’s not that easy. The ship is shielded and there’s enough cover to make it dangerous, difficult. They’re trying to find the weak spot because there’s always a weak spot. There has to be.

Cam spots it.

John shoots it.

They watch each other’s back.

They survive and the enemy doesn’t, and going back down into the dogfight is almost the perfect way to expend a little euphoria, a lot of adrenaline.

Cam cuts loose suddenly and John is supposed to be focused on his own battles, not half-watching the F302 with the barely-there white scrape on the tailpiece as it weaves and ducks and shoots, and John is impressed. Cam is a solid pilot, steady, relentless; nothing close to boring either.

And John wants to join in but he’s watching his people, ordering, “Jumpers back to Atlantis.”

They’re too precious to lose in a dogfight. Radek is the leading expert on puddlejumpers but even he couldn’t reverse-engineer a whole ‘jumper from scrap metal.

He stays behind with the F302s because he’s got the moves and because he’s got the authority. Because he won’t cede to the enemy until he’s sure that he’s done all he needs to do.

The F302 with the barely-there white scrape on the tail moves in looping, dizzying patterns through the air and John knows tight corners will take it down, sees the patterns and the rhythm and the predictions but it’s good, it’s all fine, and Rodney comes on to say, “Sheppard, we’ve got the generators working again. The shield is back online.”

He sounds exhausted and distracted and John’s concentration is suddenly back down to Atlantis Proper, to His City, and he takes his leave.

But it’s not that easy.

He’s barely halfway there before he gets the news.

“Sheppard, the Daedalus has been boarded,” Cam says.

“What the hell happened up there?” John demands.

“Sam’s got no idea. Refuel or whatever it is that thing needs. Get some guys with big guns; we’re heading in for a rescue party.”

“I’ll join you up there,” John says shortly.

It never rains but it pours, he thinks, only it turns out to be a lot easier than he expects.

Atlantis is mostly theirs. The sky is theirs. There are pockets of Alliance foot soldiers but Landry’s sent more marines through the Atlantis stargate now that the generators are back and the gateroom is secure. 

John doesn’t dissuade Ronon or Teyla from coming with him, and he takes a bunch of the biggest, most-pissed off soldiers he can find.

He gets to the Hammond and his men are subsumed into the action the minute they set foot outside the puddlejumpers. They’re kitted out and their radios are tuned and their orders are issued.

John turns around and he spots Cam not ten feet away, hair damp with sweat and blue eyes bright.

They don’t have the time, because the very fact that this day has come means that it’s bigger than they are.

“What’s the sit rep?” he asks.

And Cam grins, arms crossed. “We’re going in guns blazing,” he says.

John raises an eyebrow, checking straps on his tac vest. “Forty minutes before we made it up here, and that’s all you guys came up with?”

Cam’s grin widens. “Sam had details. I’m just giving you the overall theme.”

John hefts his P-90. “Guess it saves complications anyway.”

This time is different. Cam’s right there and they’re on foot. They start out on different teams and John tells himself that he can’t afford to keep looking over. Cam can’t afford it either. They can’t afford to fuss and worry and think because there’s no time.

So they don’t think.

And that’s why they end up in a totally different place from where they thought they’d be, holed up with two marines and laying down cover-fire while the bulk of the force rushes in where angels fear to tread.

John ends up peering over Cam’s shoulder around a corner, close and hot and sticky with a whole day’s work. Freezing with the cold, recycled ship’s air. Hearing Cam breathe and watching Cam’s jaw tighten and his blue eyes narrow and his blond stubble catch the light and John allows himself one second to breathe in and breathe out on the promise that as soon as they can, he’s going to drag Cam into a private space and drop to his knees.

And he’ll think of that plane sweeping through the air, all loops and elegance and solid, steady power. Cutting loose just enough but never reckless. Never throwing it away. Never out of control.

When he takes the next breath his mind is back on the fight and it stays there until they’re finally stood down at the end of forty-eight hours. Until he is back on Atlantis with bad bruises and a lip split in two places.

Sam doesn’t have the time to beam down to Atlantis. She wishes them luck over the radio and signs off. Her crisis is still going. They have repairs and then they’re on guard. She’s needed up there even if she can’t afford to give chase.

Cam, on the other hand... John says nothing. Not at first. Cam’s stiff but he’s not injured.

John turns his attention to other things and he finds Rodney mussed and red-eyed and clearly buzzed on something as he rants and rambles about everything and nothing.

John stares at Rodney and then looks at Carson, who’s rushing around with a medical team for the wounded.

“I had to give him something to keep him going,” Carson admits in passing.

Rodney calms down long enough to say, “Well, you seem to have survived. Again,” and sounds happy saying it.

Reasonably happy, at least. For Rodney.

John says, “Yeah,” and they leave it there.

It’s another twenty four hours before he gets to take more than a breathe without going back to work.

Cam’s technically ranking officer, and the SGC officials who were trapped in the shootout at the OK Corral seem to find it more comforting to have a full bird Colonel than a Lieutenant Colonel in residence. John’s happy to leave Cam to deal with them while he puts his City back into working order.

There are immediate reports to make and contact to establish, damage to assess and wounded to care for, and one of his first acts as Military Commander of Atlantis is to off-load unnecessary personnel back to Cheyenne Mountain through the wormhole at the first opportunity.

“You should go,” he tells Teyla, “Report to Landry.”

Teyla eyes him knowingly but he manages to keep a straight face even as he says, “You can see Torren, while you’re there.”

She knows what he’s doing but she doesn’t fight him on the small battles, merely nods once, and prepares to see her son.

John orders Radek and Miko off duty for twenty four hours, effective immediately, and when Rodney finally stops rambling and ranting and rushing around with his hands shaking, John drags him to the quarters that are still Rodney’s by unspoken law, and he deposits him on his bed and leaves him there.

Then he takes himself back to his own quarters, shuts the door, throws himself into bed and sleeps for more hours than he has allotted himself.

He wakes up to find his boots off, his shirt off, and Cam sitting at his desk with his sore leg stretched out to the side, tapping away on a laptop with a mug of coffee beside him.

“Hey,” is what John means to say. It sounds more like a croak than anything else.

Cam doesn’t even startle. Just looks around, gets up and grabs a bottle of water and drops it heavily on John’s chest.

John drinks thirstily and blinks excruciatingly sore eyes at Cam, who is all lines and grey-black shaded patches in the dark.

They don’t have to speak, really. Because it’s happened, now, and it’s over- this day they thought wouldn’t come- and they’ve survived.

Cam drops himself down heavily on John’s chest and John hooks an ankle around Cam’s ankle and he kisses him hungrily.

It’s the last traces of the fight to stay alive that drive them hard towards the edge, hands on each other and frotting like teenagers without bothering to get enough of their clothes out of the way first.

John comes first, and then Cam follows, and that’s fine. It’s good. They’re satisfied and mostly happy. John thinks he’d be a lot happier if he wasn’t so tired.

“Washington wants a report,” Cam informs him.

“Five more minutes,” John mumbles, face mashed into the pillow.

He wonders how it looks, acting like a goofy kid with his hair going grey at the temples, with his wrinkles, with his scars and his knobbly joints and the way he winces when he gets out of bed because his back and his knees don’t always like him so much anymore.

Cam slaps his ass and pushes off the bed.

John turns his head to watch so he sees the way Cam manoeuvres carefully as he pulls off his sticky, damp underwear.

“Shit,” Cam sighs, “Knew I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Want to borrow a pair?” John asks. Somewhat lazily, and grins when Cam wrinkles his nose.

“It’s nothing personal,” Cam tells him, and pulls his pants up over his bare ass.

John thinks that if there wasn’t so much fallout to deal with, he could have a lot of fun with Cam wandering around commando on Atlantis.

His radio comes to life and Rodney’s on the other end.

John gets up and picks up his radio. “What is it, Rodney,” he asks.

And watches Cam pull a face as Rodney comes through, loud and clear and clearly in one of his moods.

“I’m on my way,” John says.

Cam lowers himself carefully back into the seat in front of John’s desk, stretching his once-damaged leg out as he swallows down lukewarm coffee.

John’s dressed and out the door without a word, oddly comfortable at leaving Cam in silence.

Ronon falls into step beside him and John says, “How’s your head?” Ronon says, “I still have it.” John figures that’s Ronon-speak for ‘fine’.

He’s happy about that. He’d been worried there for a while.

Clean-up is in full swing and he spots an Airman with a busted leg, hopping around on crutches and looking harried. Kid seems to be perfectly okay so John lets him get on with it. Nods in passing and neither of them stop to chat. That’s the way it works on Atlantis.

He pauses for a second by the windows and looks out at the freezing Antarctic landscape, torn up with the recent battle but still pure white and glittering.

He finds Rodney back in the control room and it’s good to see Rodney McKay back in his usual place, scowling at data like it’s done him personal injury. Telling people to be less stupid.

John watches silently for a moment, aware that Teyla’s seen him from her place in front of a console and that Woolsey’s rubbing his brow like they’ve been at this longer than he cares to admit, and that people are beginning to eye Rodney with that combination of murder and fascination that John’s come to recognise and find amusing.

He strides in when he’s assessed the situation, steady and solid and always in control, never reckless, and he gets... if not a hero’s welcome, at least a definite sigh of relief from everybody who is not Rodney McKay.

So he argues and listens and he knows they go off into their own short hand for what’s happening and what will happen and what might happen and what Rodney’s not saying, and at some point, he knows instinctively that Cam’s walked into the room, fully dressed and not limping and watching them work.

He thinks about that F302 and shivers, just slightly, at the memory of Cam watching his six, holding his plane sure and steady and in utterly safe hands.

He hadn’t planned on them ever flying a mission together, but now that they have, he’s more than willing to do it again.

Should it ever come to that.


End file.
